There was a thickness to his words, not from alcohol, but from emotion, and it made Grace ache for him.
Mr. Evans tilted the bottle to study the inch or so of liquid sloshing at the bottom. “I hope she knew how much I loved her. How much she meant to me.” He set the bottle firmly into place and looked up at Grace.
“I’m sorry I was cross with you for staying on with the ARP.” His jaw worked beneath a sprinkling of fine, white whiskers. “You’re not Alice. I know that. I know that.” He looked away. “But I can’t lose you too.”
A stubborn lump worked its way into Grace’s throat. One she couldn’t swallow away. She’d never had anything close to a father in her life. Not when her own had been killed before she met him. And certainly not with her uncle, who saw her more as a workhorse than a niece.
“I’ll be careful,” she said. “But I have to continue with the ARP. Mr. Evans, this is me never stopping—just as you said.”
The corner of his lip lifted in a half smile. “I give terrible advice sometimes.”
“You give excellent advice.”
He pushed up from the table and paused a moment, teetering a bit where he stood. “I haven’t ever told you this before, Grace, but I’m proud of you.”
A warmth blossomed in her chest at his praise. No one had ever said those words to her before, not like that.
Mr. Evans framed his fingertips on the table. “I think I should retire to bed now.”
“I can handle the store,” she offered quickly.
“I know you can.” He reached out and took hold of her shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “Mind you look after yourself as well, eh?”
“I will,” she promised.
With that, he nodded and wandered toward the door leading to his flat above the shop, his glasses still askew.
Grace managed the shop that day, using her ARP skills that afternoon to usher the customers to local shelters when an inevitable air raid called out the arrival of more German planes. Those same sirens wailed again that night and the following night, as well as in the afternoons.
People did not ignore the sirens now. Not like before. Not when the damage was so considerable, the worst of which being when South Hallsville School in Canning Town was struck, killing many of the survivors of the East End who were sheltering within.
It was a hard blow for all of London.
Aside from the destruction of the Hewses’ home, Grace’s sector remained untouched during the air raids. Regardless, she and Mr. Stokes were asked to increase their night watches from three times a week to five. Mr. Evans, who never again brought up their discussion about his daughter, allowed her to start a bit later each day to account for the extra ARP shifts.
It was past noon several days later when she entered the bookshop and discovered a small tabby cat sleeping in a sliver of sunshine just inside the door. This discovery was followed almost immediately by the excited trill of Mr. Pritchard’s voice as he offered his ever-present opinion on the state of Britain.
“Did you hear the king and queen were bombed in Buckingham?” he said as she set her things in the back room. “The bloody king and queen, Evans. They’re just like us, they are. We’re all in this together.”
Grace could practically see Mr. Evans wince at the other man’s language when customers were present in the store. She hung her handbag and threaded through the shop, ensuring their patrons were tended to.
“You said a bomb was lodged in the ground before St. Paul’s?” Mr. Evans pressed, clearly trying to rush the other man along.
“Yes,” Mr. Pritchard exclaimed. “Right before the clock tower. The whole cathedral would have been blown to pieces had the thing gone off. The bomb disposal unit had to come see to it. Fascinating stuff, that.”
No sooner had he spoken than the air raid siren started its afternoon wail. Tabby immediately leapt to his feet and trotted over to Mr. Pritchard, who scowled at the interruption by “Moaning Minnie,” his beady eyes bright with irritation. “Blast these nuisance raids. I think Germany wants to win by driving us all mad.”
Regardless of his grousing, he followed Grace out of the shop, along with the other customers and Mr. Evans. The tube stations had opened up for shelter despite the government’s initial decision to keep them closed. The repeated bombings made their use necessary, especially with so many now seeking safety.
It was to Farringdon Station that Grace led them all, utilizing her experience as an ARP warden, despite not being on duty. For those who preferred not to pay the one and a half pence to enter the station, she guided them first to the brick shelter at the corner. Before the siren had quieted, she was settled against the tiled wall beside Mr. Evans and lifting the front jacket of her book.